Where is she?

She’s beautiful. She makes my words flow without effort. My grammar becomes art; my narrative becomes poetry. I’m high on my own genius.

But she’s missing.

My words are flat; they are a lifeless echo sounding through a hollow concrete house. There is no poetry without the symphonic flowing of words in my head; even the sunset, as I look out the window, is a dull, melting watercolor on a gray paper sky.

Where is she?

I need her. How can I write without her? I’m stupid. I’m clumsy. My writing has the finesse and beauty of a 6th grade English paper.

Where is she?

“Start writing,” I hear her whisper in the voice of a gossamer angel. “Start writing. When you write, you call me. I need you as much as you need me for I only live in your words.”

My beautiful muse. I found her, sleeping silently in my pen, waiting for me.